


Ad Undas

by Sebby_Webby



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-03-26 09:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19003405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebby_Webby/pseuds/Sebby_Webby
Summary: Following the fall, Will Graham is alive and well, reunited with his wife and step-son. But one cannot expect things to remain the same. Most of all considering, Will is not the same.There had been no reports, no confirmation that Hannibal Lecter had survived from the plunge into the waters. Everyone wants to believe he's dead, but if that's the case, who had made sure Will had gotten safely to shore?In time, Will becomes obsessed with the idea that Hannibal is still out there. Molly, Jack, and even Alana labels him delusional; they pry at him to forget about Hannibal, even though they all know that's very unlikely.Bedelia Du Maurier goes missing. And some time later, in a manner that strikes announcement to Will like church bells, he receives a letter, with his name etched in all too familiar elegant handwriting on the face of it.





	1. Immergo

The beeping of the heart monitor came the first sound that rung in Will's ears upon waking consciousness. The sound was absolutely no stranger to him, as he'd been in this position before more than once; lying on a cold bed, connected to an IV, wrapped in bandages. He dreaded the thought of it, knowing exactly where he was before he even had to open his eyes.

Memories of what had happened to lead up to this moment started to come to him in fragments, though it was difficult to get a clear image, like remembering a dream. The details wouldn't come to him at first, but in time, it played behind his closed lids like a film. He remembered the strong smell of copper, seeing the twinkling blackness coat his hands. He remembered the warmth of Hannibal's chest, the deep but quiet sound of his breath. He remembered wind, and water...

Once he did open his eyes, he was met with white walls and bright sunlight, bleeding in lines through the half opened blinds. He had to squint, his vision mildly blurry from drowsiness as he tried looking around for a familiar figure. With a grunt, he made the effort to sit up. How did he get here? Where is Hannibal?

“Will, wait—”

There was the sharp interruption of pain in his shoulder and torso as a whole, the moment he even got up to even his elbows. Will released a strained yelp before collapsing back onto the bed he was lying on. 

His eyes searched the room again for the source of what voice he'd just heard. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't yet place a name to who it was. Perhaps just the drowsiness making his memory slow. “H...Hannibal...” he muttered, almost hoping that's who it was.

There was hesitation. “Hannibal isn't here, Will.”

He held an expression of confusion, for it hadn't quite came to him who else would possibly be there. His vision grew clearer after blinking a few times, and to his right he could see a blurred figure turn into a woman with black hair, pulled over to the side of her head. Her eyes, blue and worried, added with a frown tugging at her red lips. He recognised it to be Alana.

Will had lifted his head only a little to look at her face, then looked to her hand, which was gripping his forearm. He grunted a little, letting his head fall back. “Alana,” he croaked out, breathing out sharply. He focused his eyes on her, looking over her worried features. He was searching for anything that could reveal her hiding something from him.

She had removed her hand and set it in her lap, taking in a breath before she spoke. “Good to see you awake,” she commented. She was dressed in a plum coloured suit, seemingly lacking a dress shirt underneath the jacket she had on, though there seemed to be a vest of sorts instead.

Will stared up at the ceiling for a little while, allowing himself a better chance to gather himself. More flickers of memories had then came to light in those brief seconds. There was a memory of more wind, and soaked clothes pressed against his skin. There wasn't too much that came of that one; it was much more foggy at the mind.

“Where's Hannibal…?” he asked, the words coming out as more instinctual than him having the full intention of speaking them aloud.

Will couldn't see it, but Alana's face gained a more flat expression, as if she were exasperated by the question. Disappointed. She'd looked away from Will, shaking her head a little. There was a pause, before she would answer. “He's  _ gone, _ Will,” she urged, tone sounding more stressed than sentimental of any sort.

She had given a moment for Will to process what she meant. In said moment, Will's brows focused and he seemed to be glaring up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes. She didn't mean what he thought she did...did she? “He's...gone?”

Alana nodded her head, however provided verbal confirmation when realising Will seemed to basically be avoiding looking in her direction. “They found you washed up on shore not too far from the cliff they found Dolarhyde's body,” she started explaining. She sounded bored, like she's had to explain this at least once already. “You had already seemed to lose quite a bit of blood, but they rushed you to the nearest hospital on a chopper while you were still barely alive. Search teams looked and looked for any signs of Hannibal, for a while they didn't find anything…”

There was another pause. The silence gave only tension, and Will's mind was already making a few conclusions. “But?”

“But... yesterday...they found a body. The face was pretty beat up, probably from the impact. There was a lot of rocks at the bottom of that cliff, it's a damn miracle you weren't beaten to hell yourself.”

Will swallowed hard, hearing those words. There was a frown on his face, and gathering what she told him, it definitely sounded like she was indirectly telling him that Hannibal's body was the one that was found. He felt upset. He felt devastated. But why? Wasn't that part of the intention when pulling him off that cliff…?

“How...how do you know it was Hannibal?” Will asked, his voice low and still a little croaky. He still hadn't turned his eyes from the ceiling, once he opened them again, though they tended to wander to different parts of it.

“The  _ scars,  _ Will,” Alana replied with a sigh.

There was then only a lack of response from Will, then, at her further confirmation. He was trying to figure out exactly how he felt about this. Was he glad? Relieved? Upset? Remorseful? Regretful? He wanted to see the body, just to see if he could make sure of it himself. But, if Alana says it him, it's him. She's seen more of him than Will has.

Either way, just trying to decide on how he felt about it genuinely hurt his head. Though there was still a gut feeling that tried prying at his mind on the answer. He ignored it.

He took in a breath, exhaling slowly, imagining his thoughts left with the air. At least that little part of them. “If Hannibal is dead...how did I...make it to shore? There wasn't anything at level with the water for...miles, I'm sure.”

Alana pressed her lips into a thin line and shrugged her shoulders. “We're all just calling it a miracle,” she responds.

Will scoffs and shakes his head stiffly, glancing at Alana for only a moment before he looked away again. “Yeah, well, I don't  _ believe  _ in  _ miracles, _ ” he stressed.

“Why are you so worried about what happened to Hannibal?” she asks, almost all too quickly. She, herself, seemed rather stressed about it, as well as suspicious, given from her tone. “I thought you wanted him dead just as much as we all thought it necessary.”

Will didn't answer for a moment. For a split second, he imagined her tongue being sliced right out of her mouth just to get her to shut the hell up. He shoved such thoughts away, so that he could attempt giving an answer. “I  _ did _ ,” he replied slowly. “I did want him gone, Alana. Lord knows that's all I wanted for years.”

Then, Alana herself scoffed. She wasn't an idiot, and she knew plenty about Will to know better than to actually believe what he was telling her. She knew better. “You and I  _ both  _ know that isn't entirely true, Will.”

There was yet another moment of silence between them. The only sound that could be heard for a short while was the constant rhythmic beeping of the monitor. Then, there was the sounds of brief shuffling, as Alana stood from the seat she was formerly in.

“Your  _ wife _ is at the door.”

Without further ado, she left Will alone for that brief moment before Molly would enter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fair warning; updates may be slow. This is a Hannigram fic (of course), but I'm going to throw in some Alana x Margot (I don't know their ship name) for the hell of it.


	2. Excieo

There's a faint glow illuminating the room, the glow of a soft, warm yellow coming from the little desk lamp set at the side of the room. The olive wallpapers dance with little embroideries of curly leaves, most shaded in the lack of generally bright lighting. There is a singular other light source; another lamp, but this one a floor lamp standing on opposing sides of the room from the other. 

At the mentioned desk sits Alana Bloom. Her dark hair falls loose and damp on her shoulders, fresh smelling of pomegranates from a recent shower, and she's dressed comfortably. Even when she's dressed comfortably, though, there is still a sense of elegance in her choice in clothing; she wears a silk robe, loose on her porcelain, soft skin. Beneath she wears only the singular undergarment she finds necessary, that being her underwear. 

As she sits, she stares at the wall before her, stern icy blue eyes focused as she's quite deep in thought. She seems troubled, both with the look on her face and her stiff posture. 

Her wife, Margot Verger, has just finished putting their son to bed. She wanders into the room, brown curls pulled back into a half bun. She stands just at the doorway, a hand lingering on the wood frame as she gazes almost knowingly at the other woman seated just a mere several feet before her. 

She sighs, not in any form of exasperation, or other known emotion. The breath is only to declare her presence, if need be. Alana doesn't turn her head. In response, Margot walks further into the room, and over to her wife. “So he's awake,” she declares in an effort to start a conversation. She knows this is what's troubling her lover.

Alana flicks her eyes from the wall, and up to Margot, who now stands beside her. There's a hand of hers placed loosely at Alana's shoulder. “Yes,” she replies nonchalantly. Well, her tone makes the response seem nonchalant. She finds it quite important that Will Graham has woken from a minor coma. So does Margot. And Jack Crawford. And Freddie Lounds.

“How was he?” questioned the standing one of the two, the inquiry placed after just a brief moment of silence.

Alana's eyes trail back to the wall, the space between her brows forming a crease. “Distant,” she answers. “He's… It's like there's a part of him that's finally been… released. He didn't particularly do anything or say much that confirms that, but…” She shakes her head. She feels as though she's going on about something that's leading to a pit of nothing. But she knows there's something off about Will. Not too off, just… different. 

Margot studies her wife's features, and a troubled expression mirrors onto her own. She's all the knowing of exactly what Alana is trying to get at. Quite frankly, she worries about it as well, but not as much as Alana does. “Hannibal Lecter changes us all in some way, Alana.”

“No, no I don't think it's a change. An awakening.” She returns her glance to Margot. “Something clicked, probably when killing Francis Dolarhyde.”

Another brief moment of silence befalls between the two. If one would stand apart from them, look at them both, it would almost be as if they were a couple of puzzling philosophers, but philosophers that had discovered an idea that they didn't particularly enjoy. Something that almost scared them, in a way.

“You're worried about him,” Margot states. 

Alana shakes her head slowly. “I'm not so much worried about him, not really. Not...primarily. I'm worried for his family, Margot. About Molly and Walter.”

“Why?”

Alana hesitates. How does she put this in words, logical words that make sense? Complete sense? She sighs, shakes her head dismissively. “Hannibal Lecter is dead. I don't want to have to worry that Will Graham might fill in his shoes.”

Margot nods her head slowly, faintly. She understands, but she doesn't fully empathise with the worry. She's had an affair with Will, but she wasn't as close to him as Alana is. Will is an association with Hannibal. She sees one, she sees the other, as do most people at this point. 

“Come to bed, Alana. Rest a little from this, okay?”

Alana exhales softly, nodding her head. She pushes herself up, turns and faces Margot. They share eye contact, but only for a moment. “Morgan is in bed?”

Margot nods. Alana reflects the gesture. Not a further word is shared. Alana is the first to move out of the room, Margot lingers behind, watching her wife move along. She looks worried. Not for Will Graham. Not for his wife, not for his step son. For Alana. 

She sighs, and soon she's following after. 

~//~

“Mr Graham?”

Will looks towards the door from staring out the window, eyes set on a nurse that is peeking his head from the doorway. Will doesn't say anything to acknowledge. He knows looking over should be enough. 

“Someone from the FBI is here, says their name is Jack Crawford, also claims you know him. You good for him to come in?”

Will nods his head with little hesitation. He knows Jack is here either to scold him, ask questions, or maybe both. It's not really something he can get out of either; Jack probably states his presence as official police business, whatever you want to call it.

In walks Jack, wearing a typical suit of casual attire. His eyes are dead set on Will, and he's almost glaring. Almost.

“It's good to see you awake,” he says. 

Will hums. “The look in your eyes say otherwise.”

A raise of his brows is Jack's only response to that. He takes a few more steps, grabs a chair drags it to be set beside the bed Will still lies on, and takes a seat. He sighs heavily, slowly, and leans forward. Will watches his every movement, his face void of any genuine emotion. “You know why I'm here.”

A hint of a smirk curls up on Will's lips, fading away before he answers. “Francis Dolarhyde's slaughter,” he says. 

Jack nods his head. “Correct. Francis Dolarhyde's murder, his mutilation.”

“It wasn't mutilation, Jack. You know better.”

Jack raises his brows again, this time not in any sort of responding gesture. Will's given response had struck a sort of offense. “Yeah, I know better. I also know better than to think that several knife wounds, a slash across the chest, and a piece of Dolarhyde's throat missing is a lot more than any regular self defense.”

Will has to refrain himself from rolling his eyes. He doesn't want to hear about this, as far as he can tell, the incident is behind him. In a vague manner of speaking. “Things went wrong. We did what was necessary.”

“We,” Jack echoes. “You and Hannibal.” He shakes his head, scoffs out a chuckle. There's hesitation. “What happened to your ache to get rid of Hannibal? Instead of doing that, you paired with him to kill Dolarhyde.” 

Will doesn't respond.

Jack sighs. “How did you end up on a shoreline separate from the cliff?”

Will looks away, his chest rising and falling slowly as he exhales in a sigh of his own. “I pulled us off.”

Jack searches Will's features for a moment. “Why?”

There's silence. Will hadn't thought much on the depth of that answer; what he did then was more instinctual than anything. He blinks, opens his mouth to try getting the right words out. But he says nothing. He'd just reminded himself of the exact answer to that simple question. 

He pulled himself and Hannibal off that cliff as an act of self termination. He'd realised then how much he enjoyed what he did with Hannibal. Most especially, the little detail that he performed it with Hannibal. There was bliss in the rush, in the heightened races of adrenaline and being covered in a sleek layer of blood after tearing open someone else's flesh. He enjoyed it. And that scared him, in a way. He had become exactly what he was trying to drive himself away from. 

“Will?”

He glanced back over. He inhales, shifting his position so that he's sitting up just a tad. “He's dead? You retrieved a body?”

Jack hesitates, but nonetheless nods his head. “Does it bother you that he's dead?”

A chuckle comes from Will, and he shakes his head. A ghost of a smile is on his lips. “No. No, it doesn't worry me. It doesn't bother me. I just don't believe it.”

“He is dead, Will,” Jack stresses. 

“Did you run DNA?”

“We don't—”

“Then you don't know for sure.” A laugh rumbles in Will's chest. He shakes his head. “You'd think that would be a priority. A method of double checking.”

“I don't need your sass, Will,” snaps Jack, before he catches himself and huffs. “Just… I need to know that you didn't enjoy it, that you didn't take pleasure in the slaughter.”

Will stared at Jack for a moment. He doesn't say anything in said moment, and he doesn't say anything for a moment longer. “I don't need to answer that, Jack.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Nothing comes in response. Will turns his head away from the only other in the room, and he closes his eyes. He's clearly not going to say anything further, and Jack is aware of this. So, he moves up from his chair, and goes for the door. Will hears the sound of the door opening and closing, and there's finally silence regained.


	3. Acceptatio

“Alright, Mr Graham, up you go.”

A nurse is standing just beside Will's hospital bed, all the little machines are disconnected from him and he's being eased to his feet. There is a few bandages, one on his right cheek, another on the shoulder at the same half, and there’s  a cast on his left leg. The doctor had declared the impact of the fall must've broken it. ‘You must have some heavy swimming skills,’ they had told him then. Will's only response to that had been a scoff. 

The nurse hands him a pair of crutches, the moment Will is close to standing. He takes them, sets them under his arms, and sighs. After a moment, he chuckles to himself. 

Across the room, Molly and Walter stand waiting to escort him out. Molly holds a smile to her face, hearing the little chuckle come from her husband. She assumes there’s something positive enough to laugh about in the situation, which she thinks is good. “What's funny, Will?” she asks simply, still thinking there's an entirely innocent reasoning behind the little noise. 

He doesn't look at her. “It's just… funny, all the scars and wounds I've earned from getting involved with Hannibal.” 

Molly's smile faded from genuinity, looking more of a tight-lipped one. As proved obvious, it wasn’t the reasoning she thought it to be. She clearly doesn't find the mentioning of Hannibal very pleasing, especially coming from Will. God, she wishes Will would just  _ move on  _ from Hannibal… It's still early, though. Time will tell. 

There's tension when Molly doesn't respond, and Will finally looks up, but not to her. He looks at the nurse. “Am I all set?”

The nurse nods, giving a smile of his own. “Yessir, you just walk on out of here. Six weeks and the cast comes off, the usual.”

Will nods a reply, and he finally looks over to Molly. “Come on, then. Let's go home,” he says. The wife motions Walter to proceed out the door, and Will steps behind, the crutches making muffled clanks against the tile floors. Molly stands beside Will as she walks, keeping a hand on his back as if to steady him. He wants to tell her not to do that, that he doesn't need her assistance, but he refrains. 

He hasn't said a word to Walter that day. Hasn't even looked directly at him. Will knows he's there; he's not exactly purposefully avoiding him or anything. Quite frankly, he doesn't know exactly why he hasn't interacted with his step son yet. Maybe he feels he's betrayed him in some way. 

They make it to the car, after a short, quiet elevator ride and a bit of a walk towards and out the door. Molly sits in the driver's seat, Will in the passenger's, and Walter in the back. For a good portion of the car ride home, the lot of them are dead silent. 

Molly keeps looking over at Will simultaneously, studying his features with each glance. There's concern in her eyes, and her very movements make it obvious. She wants to speak to him, but he seems...distant. Perhaps distraught in some way, she thinks. 

Alas, she breaks the silence. “Will, is something wrong?” she asks slowly.

Said male looks over at his wife, and they make brief eye contact. It's broken when Will quickly looks forward. “No, nothing's wrong.” He's lying through his teeth. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you just seem like… You have that look like something's the matter,” she clarifies, her eyes continuously going back and forth between the road and her husband. 

He shakes his head. “It's nothing, Molly.” He pauses, then sighs. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

She doesn't say anything for a moment. Her glance lingers on Will just a little longer than her past ones, specifically down at his hand that is set on the seat’s armrest, before she looks back to the road for the final time. “Okay, Will.”

The rest of the ride resumes silence.

 

~//~

 

Red flows, reaching up only to mid-calf height. It’s not quite water, neither is it a pure flow of blood. It’s a mixture of sorts; rushing, racing, flowing.  _ Like  _ blood, really, inside a pulsing vein. 

Will stands in the middle of it, pole and string in hand. There hadn’t yet been the consideration of catching anything. He finds himself here, confused of the change, but not surprised. He removes his gaze from the water, tilting his head up to take a look at the sky. It’s almost black, but with some blots of orangey hues splayed about. The wisps of orange, trace to a more crimson colour, as it meets with a sun, a blood-red sun, hiding along the line of dark trees. 

In the distance, something emerges. Something familiar; black, sleek black crawls out from the twinkling red flow, first peeks out pointed antlers, then a face, then a bony figure. Will stares. He’s not bothered; in fact, he’s finding himself to be accepting.

The stag-man that he’s seen oh-so-many times before stares back. Then, it’s long legs push forward, against the current, towards Will. There is no turn to escape, there is no shift in position for defense. Will stands his ground, he does not feel threatened. Not anymore.

He loosens what hold he had on the fishing rod. In a short moment’s time, pole and string slip from his fingers, and sink into the depths of the liquid he stands in. The moment that happens, more, smaller things make way to the surface of the blood-water. Each of them, motionless as they reach the top. Fish-- dead fish, one after another after another. But the fish is not where Will places his focus right now.

His eyes are still directed forward; the stag-man is closer. To shorten the anticipation, and to make some sort of declaration of his newfound welcoming nature, he walks forward as well. He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of the tall black figure, until he’s close enough to be staring right into it’s blank white eyes.

Will stares at it, it stares at Will. What was once a crystal clear river is now a pool of red, now blanketed with death. There are no birds singing. As far as Will is concerned, they’re all likely falling motionless from the trees. The sun, otherwise, is just about set. But yet, it’s as if there’s still somehow a glow allowing just the right amount of light for sight.

And so, in the midst of it all, is Will and the stag-man. Their gaze does not break. The taller of the two smiles down on the other. The smile is something sinister. But, Will smiles back. His own smile is responsive, agreeing. 

He blinks. And in place of the stag-man, is Hannibal Lecter.

 

In an instant, however, everything disappears. Will is snapped back into reality, by the sound of Molly’s voice calling his name. He must’ve fallen asleep… dozed off into the depths of his mind. His memory palace, as what it could probably be referred to as.

“Will? We’re home.”

He looks at her, then glances forward, through the front window and catches sight of the old familiar cabin. He hadn’t been here since before the Dragon… a memory wisps past his mind. The memory of dragging that knife across Dolarhyde’s chest, while Hannibal had torn out a piece of his throat with his teeth… For a moment, Will thought himself fond of that memory. Until catching on and realising it’s  _ wrong  _ to be fond of murdering someone with Hannibal Lecter. It was self defense, though, right?

He nods stiffly. He doesn’t say anything, instead opens the door and pulls the crutches from the back seat. It becomes noticed that Walter must have already gone inside, stated by his absence from the back seat.

With the crutches re-positioned under his arms, said male starts towards the house, with little consideration of waiting for the woman that watches him from the driver’s seat. If he were to turn back and look at her, he would be able to identify the reoccurring worry glued to every inch of her features. He would know not of the specifics behind her worry, just that it was there.

But, since he’s focused on moving forward, he doesn’t see that worry whatsoever.

A minute or two after, all three of the family members have at last made way inside. Despite Will being the one with the broken leg, Molly was the last to enter. She doesn’t find her husband in the living room, nor the kitchen. On her way to check the bedroom, she stops when seeing Walter’s own bedroom door partially closed. She makes the effort to check if he’s in there, to see if her son is doing okay.

She gives the door a good two knocks using the end bit of her knuckle, before gently pushing the door open. She sets eyes on Walter, who’s on his bed, playing some game on his tablet. “Hey,” Molly greets.

The boy only sends a glance. “Hey,” he responds lowly.

“You doing okay?”

Walter makes the attempt not to roll his eyes at his mom’s...motherly-ness. “Yeah...yeah, I’m fine.”

Molly doesn’t believe that entirely, but she also doesn’t want to nag her son about it too much, as well. She nods, with a bit of an obvious sigh. “I’ll call for you when dinner’s ready.” She turns to leave.

“Mom,” the boy interjects, and Molly turns back to face him. “Is something wrong with dad?”

There’s hesitation in the woman’s answer. She wonders the same thing, only she knows there’s something wrong, something  _ different  _ about Will. She just can’t place what exactly. And, in a way, it scares her. She tries to think, because she doesn’t exactly know how she’s going to answer that question to her  _ son. _

She forces a smile, and brings her shoulders up in a shrug. It almost looks like she’s going to cry. “I don’t know, Willy,” she alas replies. “Let’s just hope for the best, yeah?”

Walter only has time to nod his head, before Molly turns and shuts the door, leaning against it before she covers a portion of her face with her hands. She exhales a shaky sigh, lowers her hand and looks up. But, when she does, she almost screams. She catches herself, though, when realising all it was that had startled her was Will, somehow managing to stand a mere few feet away and was completely silent. “Will! God, you scared the shit out of me!,” she says with a bit of a laugh.

Will, in response, blinks and lowers his eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m gonna… go say hello to the dogs. Where- where are they?”

Molly nods, before she points a finger. “Backyard, I’m guessing,” she says. Will nods and just about walks off, until Molly stops him. “Will?”

He turns his head, his eyes not setting on hers, but instead her chin. “Yes, Molly…?”

She’s hesitant yet again, her lips pursing into somewhat of a frown as her eyes lower to his left hand. “Where…where’s your ring?”

He looks confused for a moment, before realisation comes to him quickly, as he raises his left hand as if to check if the mentioned ring was there. As predicted, it wasn’t. In fact, he doesn’t remember having it on since he first woke the other day. “I… I don’t know,” he tries, then scoffs at himself for how honestly  _ horrible  _ that sounded. “It must’ve slipped off from the fall...that, or maybe the doctors took it off and forgot to give it back.”

Molly nods, gives a tight-lipped smile. “Well, lets see about getting you a new one, yeah? Don’t want anyone thinking you aren’t claimed anymore,” she tries at sounding a little teasing. All she gets is a huff of a laugh from her husband.

He nods his head, letting a corner of his lips turn up into a half-assed smile. “Yeah...that’s probably a good idea.”

There’s a tense moment of silence between them. Molly makes the decision she ought to try something, just to test on what terms they really are on. She rubs his shoulder, and goes in for a small kiss. 

Will moves his head away.

Thus, Molly looks ultimately hurt. Not to mention, confused with a dash of suspicious. “Will, is everything okay?”

Said male shakes his head, then nods. “Yeah- no-” He stops himself, sighs, shakes his head again, and lowers his eyes to the floor. “I don’t...I don’t know, Molly. I’m being pulled between realities. Different ideas. I guess I’m just...a little lost.”

There’s only silence from the wife. She doesn’t know exactly what to say, other than something possibly assuring that he’s going to be okay. But should she even say that?

“I’m going to say hi to the dogs now,” Will finishes, before he turns and finally walks away, and Molly doesn’t stop him this time. She stands, alone.


	4. Deludere

It had been a good two weeks since Graham’s leave from the hospital. Things are quiet, though the newspapers had been swarming with reports about the case. But, that didn’t last long. Into that second week, the media, the papers had seemed to forget about the incident. As far as the people who paid any considerable attention to news updates could seem to tell, Doctor Lecter, Hannibal the Cannibal, The Chesapeake Ripper, is dead. 

Of predictability, Will isn’t wanting to let go of the idea that something just isn’t right about it. Jack had told him that the body they found was Hannibal’s, but then Jack and Alana both made it clear that they apparently didn’t need a DNA test to know it was Lecter. But, Jack wasn’t stupid, he would’ve ran a DNA test either way, right? Will never got any word back about it since his talk with Crawford at the hospital. Maybe that just means it really is him.

To Will’s observation, everyone just wants to  _ believe  _ he’s dead. Will wants to believe it too. He reminds himself of that every day; he sees that reminder in Molly’s smile, hears it in Walter’s laugh, smells it on the dogs, tastes it in the store-bought food. Hannibal is dead. Hannibal is dead. Hannibal is dead. Hannibal is  _ dead. _

But, all the while, there are moments; brief, short moments that have his mind plummeting into another world, but a familiar one. A world that he’s lost in ambivalence over, engulfed in a swarm of mixed feelings about. Every time, in the moment when his mind wanders over there, he finds something  _ natural  _ about it. Like in that world, everything about it is  _ right.  _ It isn’t until he’s pulled back into reality when he faces himself with the genuinity of his family that he knows it’s wrong.

That world, is a blood-ridden world. It is a world shaped by the idle hands of Hannibal Lecter, morphed into a cocoon of his deviations, in which emerged every corpse of innocence that Graham ever even hoped to be left within him. It’s hard to believe there’s anymore now, all skinned into little shavings that blanket like a mask of mockery, like a crafted but broken down facade that Will so desperately still tries to wear into former glory.

It’s early, now. Molly and Walter hadn't even woken up yet, but Will is outside on the porch. None of the dogs is out with him, they’re all curled up inside, away from the outdoor cold. The crisp, stuffy morning suggests that rain ought to be coming soon. When looking up and seeing the dramatic grey hues of clouds invading the sky, the predicted weather only becomes evident.

Graham hates that he has to be stuck to his home; Molly hardly lets him go anywhere on his leg. Besides that, it’s almost impossible to go anywhere in public without being recognised by some cheap journalist, and flooded with questions and requests for interviews. He’s on the verge of infamy, and he absolutely hates it. He’s had to deal with one too many journalists over the past years as is.

‘Dragon Slayer’, they called him at first. Now, the name wasn’t all too bad, but then the names had progressed; ‘The Man Who Escaped Lecter.’ ‘Hannibal’s Sous-Chef.’ ‘The Ripper’s Right Hand.’ There had even been one in relevance to the bride of Frankenstein. Will found that single one a little funny, but the others he despised because now the people who cared enough to pay attention were suspicious of him. They referred to him as a direct link to Lecter. He couldn’t blame them, though, for he was growing suspicious of his own self. Regardless, they were suspicious of him for all the wrong reasons...

Graham had been thinking about visiting a face he hadn’t seen since before slaughtering Dolarhyde. That particular face, being Bedelia du Maurier. Will knew that she  _ had  _ to hold the same ticking feeling that he held, about Hannibal still being alive. But, he doubted that she would be in the home he had last seen her in; she had made it fairly clear of how fearful for her life she was if Hannibal had broken free. She wasn’t stupid, so whether the media said he was dead or not, Bedelia would likely be on the run. But Will strongly believed he could find her either way.

The brunet looked from the grassy outdoors, back towards the inside of the house. All the lights were still out, so he could only assume that his wife and step-son were still asleep. He sighed and looked down at the cast that still wrapped about his leg before his eyes trailed off to stare at the wooden porch floor. He takes only a short moment to make his decision on whether he’d visit Lecter’s former psychiatrist or not. He goes back inside and starts to make way to crawl back into bed with his wife.

He makes it to the bedroom, using the walls to support himself rather than crutches to get there, making as little noise as possible so that he doesn’t wake Molly, even though she’ll likely wake soon anyways. 

Seated on the edge of the bed now, Will turns to look back at her. Her hair lays out on the pillow like thin ribbons, her closed lids showing off the beautiful curl of her lashes. But, past the beauty Will had known of her, her face does not look peaceful. Right now, in her rest, she looks troubled. A frown curls on her lips, there’s a crease between her brows. He starts to wonder if she was dreaming of something unpleasant. But, then he remembers the light argument they had before going to bed...she probably went to sleep with such an expression.

He starts to imagine her lying in a pool of blood. Her own blood. It seeps from her mouth, and from an open gash running across her neck. It’s wrong that his imagination could make him see such a thing of his own wife, but somehow he can’t find himself to look away. The vision stands, and he stares right at it. He starts to think the blood compliments her skin tone wonderfully.

In her sleep, she then turns slowly, so that her back now faces Will. The vision disappears, there’s no blood, and the male finally turns his eyes away. He breathes a sigh out through his nostrils. Afterwards, he then moves up, carefully sets his broken leg onto the bed first, then his--

He turns his head when he hears the soft vibrations of his phone ringing. He usually puts it on silent when they’re sleeping, so there’s no jarring noise echoing the room. Looking over to check the caller ID, he lets out a sigh when recognising the number to belong to Jack Crawford. 

Will doesn’t yet bother picking up the phone. He ponders whether he’s going to answer the call or not. This being such an unreasonable, but so typical hour for Jack to be calling him, Will is leaning more towards ignoring it. But, there’s the chance that Jack could be calling about something significant. Maybe-- hopefully-- he’s calling to tell him that he’s  _ right.  _ But when does Jack ever do such a thing so easily? Jack is probably calling to ask about his wellbeing.

Deciding to just get whatever the hell Jack wants out of the way, Graham reaches over and grabs the device, answers the call just before it’s about to transfer to voicemail, and holds it up to his ear. In a voice that suggests he hasn’t used it that morning until just now, he groggily mutters a, “Hello?”

“Will, I have someone I need you to start talking to. About Hannibal.”

The brunet’s brows crease to form that of a temporary expression of confusion. He turns, to glance back at his wife. She’s still sleeping. “What?” he inquires for clarification. 

“Look, I know it’s probably a good idea to forget about this whole thing--”

“It really  _ isn’t. _ ”

“ _ But…  _ I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said.” There’s the wispy sound of a sigh that comes from the other end of the line. “Maybe,  _ maybe  _ you’re right-” Will breathes a laugh that expresses his pleasure. “-I seriously doubt it, but I need to be sure.”

“And how do you propose that I provide you with further evidence,” Will asks, keeping his voice low in an effort not to wake the sleeping Molly behind him.

“As I said, I have someone I want you to start talking to.”

“Another  _ psychiatrist? _ ” he asks bitterly, mockingly.

“No,” Jack is quick to correct. “She’s apart of the bureau. A little new, but I’m confident that she can do some good.”

There are a few breaths of silence on Will’s end. He thinks on this, trying to analyse what exactly is the purpose behind this, and it’s definitely not to give Will the chance to prove his former boss of sorts wrong. “You want to prove  _ me  _ wrong.”

“I don’t believe I follow…”

“You want to pull your professionals into this just to prove to me that what I think is wrong. When have I ever been direly wrong about Hannibal?”

“ _ Will,  _ just  _ listen  _ to me. I just want you to work with her. If you think Hannibal is alive, find him. She can  _ help  _ you.”

“I don’t need any help. And I  _ don’t  _ want to go hunting for Hannibal.” Will’s voice has rumbled back to the base of his throat, making him sound just that tint more aggressive in his words.

“If you’re right, if Hannibal is alive, I’m pretty damn sure you’re going to be the first person that he’s going after. Don’t be  _ stupid,  _ Will.” Jack’s voice, however, was naturally more aggressive, more forceful. He was serious, but Graham could still tell that he didn’t think Hannibal was alive.

A twitch of a smirk comes to the curve of Will’s lips. He shakes his head and exhales a sigh through his nostrils. Jack is wrong on that idea. Maybe Hannibal will get to him eventually, but he knows that he’s not going to be the  _ first one  _ that Hannibal gets his hands on. His mind trails to a particular blonde… “You’re  _ wrong,  _ Jack. I’m not going to be who he hunts down first.”

Jack’s suspicion is evident. Both by his pause, and in the tightness of his voice. “What do you mean, Will?”

Should he warn him? Tell Jack who he thinks is going to be the next big entrée to wind up on Lecter’s table?  _ Warn  _ him to keep a safe eye on them? He decides to say nothing…

_ He wants to see what will happen. _

“What the  _ hell  _ are you implying, Will?” He’s a lot harsher with the question now.

“What’s her name? When do I need to start talking with her?”

Jack says nothing for a moment. It’s near evident that he’s holding some form of exasperation on the abrupt change of subject. Or-- rather, a switch back to a former subject. He sighs. “Her name is Clarice Starling. I’d like you to come down and start talking to her as soon as possible. I would prefer you to come down today, but--”

“I’ll be there,” Will interjects assuringly.

“Thank you.” A pause. “Tell your family I said hello.”

The line goes dead. Will is the one to end the call, and so he then sighs, rubbing his fingers at the bridge of his nose. His mind starts to drift, he starts to imagine Bedelia Du Maurier in a display of one of Hannibal’s elegant meals. On normal occasions, perhaps Will would feel disgusted or rejecting of thinking of the psychiatrist’s cannibalistic ways. But now he feels nothing. Almost as if it’s an absolutely normal occurrence. And in a way, it has become that way.

He’d been staring at the floor, unknowing that Molly was awake now. She had called his name a few times already, and he’d just now been caught at attention, turning to look back at her with vague, tired eyes. 

She looks at him, he looks at her. She does but doesn’t want to bid good morning to him. She does but doesn’t want to ask what’s going on. Mainly because she has an idea of it, but she wants it to be confirmed, said aloud and told to her by her husband, the man she’s supposed to  _ trust. _

“You’re leaving,” she states more than asks.

“I’m coming back,” he assures her. Still, he does not look her in the eye.

“When?” She doesn’t get a response to her question. “Will, I don’t want you going back there. You shouldn’t be involving yourself with Crawford anymore, Hannibal is--”

“Hannibal is  _ alive _ ,” he says quickly, maybe a little harshly. “I… I don’t have any direct evidence, only a little, but I  _ know  _ he’s alive.”

Molly’s eyes turn pleading. She doesn’t want him to leave. She believes just as anyone else that the cannibal they’re all so familiar with is dead, and because of that simple little thing, her very husband has grown distant from her. She grabs his arm, and he looks down at her hands as if he doesn’t wish her to be touching him  _ at all,  _ but does nothing about it. 

“Please,” she starts. “ _ Please,  _ Will, you need to let him  _ go. _ ”

His eyes drift up to her face. He catches a glimpse of the look in her eyes, then looks away. He shakes his head. “I can’t, Molly. I have to prove to Jack that I’m right. I know I’m right. Because everything everyone’s trying to convince me with is  _ wrong. _ ” There’s a pause, neither of them says a word. Then, Will finishes his words. “I have to prove that you’re all wrong.”

He removes himself from Molly’s hold, and so stands, using the walls and furniture to steady himself as he grabs some clothes to change into. Molly sits quietly. There’s an evident reformation of tension between them, one that might take ages to fade away. They’re just as stubborn as one another, they both are starting to think of each other a little differently.

Molly wants to cry. She feels angry, she feels sad, worried,  _ scared.  _ Has she lost her husband to this obsessive idea that the man she thought he was trying so desperately to get away from is still out there somewhere?  _ Delusional,  _ she thinks.  _ He’s become absolutely delusional, hasn’t he?  _ Dramatic of her to think that, maybe. But she has good reasoning. 

He comes back from the bathroom, fully dressed and ready to leave already. She wishes he’d just wait a little longer, but she also knows the prying will do no good. “What are you going to do? If you find him?”

Will picks up his phone and shoves it in his pocket. He stops to think, glancing at her before he turns away. “I don’t know,” he mutters. There’s almost  _ fear  _ in his voice. “I’ll try to come back by tomorrow. Make sure Willy knows too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably would've extended this one some more, but I wanted to get something posted since it's been a little while. Chapter five is on the way.


	5. Demens

Clarice Starling walks across the parking lot to hurriedly get to her car. She had been released for her lunch break, and she had just a bit shorter time to find something to munch on than usual, because she had Will Graham to look forward to talking with. 

Although she knows that Jack seemed to find whatever exactly was going on to be pretty important, she hadn’t yet found the reasoning of importance herself. She’s heard about the Red Dragon incidents, and she’s done some inlook on the Hannibal Lecter cases. But she was never directly involved with them until just now.

Still technically reaching the end of being a trainee, Jack telling her to partner up with someone who used to work with the bureau to prove that a serial killer is really dead was a bit of a surprise. A whirlwind to comprehend, especially since she had started looking into the background just two hours ago.

She reaches her car, a small gray 2005 jetta, reaching for her keys which are clipped to her belt. She picks past the house key, garage key, storage, until she takes the one that fits her vehicle into her fingers. She makes the attempt to be quick in unlocking the door, but that ends in frustration when the metal misses the keyhole, and the keys tumble out of her hands entirely.

“Damnit,” she mutters under her breath, coughing a scoff out and kneeling down so that she may try again.

However, before she was able to even let her fingers brush against it, another hand that wasn’t of her own picks them up for her. At least, she’d like to think someone was doing her the favour.

Not yet standing up straight, Clarice turns her head up so she can see just who was before her. She sets eyes on a red haired woman, dressed in expensive clothing and wearing light makeup. The redhead had a particular look to her that made it obvious she wanted something from Clarice. That very specific…  _ reporter  _ sort of look.

“You’re Clarice Starling, right?” comes as her words. Not even a proper ‘hello’.

Clarice tries not to roll her eyes when she takes her keys from this stranger. She stands straight, and turns to her car. “I’m trying to get some lunch,” she says, almost harshly. With a quiet sigh, though, she catches herself for the sake of manners. She turns back to them. “I’m sorry, you are?” she tries as casually as she can manage.

A smile comes to the natural pursed lips of the other woman. “Freddie Lounds,” she says. Immediately, Clarice holds a sort of knowing look to her young expression. “I came here on behalf of Jack Crawford, wanted a word with him, but.. Well, why do I need to talk to him when I can talk to you?”

“Tch,” Clarice scoffs. She turns back to her car, reattempting at unlocking the door. “I know who you are, Miss Lounds.” Her tone provides displeasure. “What makes you think I’ll tell you a  _ damn  _ word?”

There’s disappointment in Lounds’s eyes, but it’s evident that she’s far used to rejection of this type, perhaps even worse. She pries on. “You’re about to become associated with a psychopath who’s trying to chase after a cannibal,” she says blatantly. Clarice gives a side glance when Freddie says ‘psychopath.’ “In which, to my observation, the two of them have a very…  _ profound  _ connection.”

The jetta’s door pulls open, but Starling doesn’t make the effort to crawl inside the car yet. There’s a sliver of curiosity that bubbles within her, but she shoves said curiosity away. She knows better than to get involved with a journalist, let alone the notorious Freddie Lounds.

“Will Graham is not a psychopath,” Clarice says, although she herself is not entirely positive on that claim. In response to her counterargument, the redhead holds her own knowing expression. She has a clear bit of backing evidence that she looks like she’s about to boast on, but she doesn’t say anything. Her pink glossy lips stay shut, for once. Clarice, huffs. “My job is to prove that Hannibal Lecter is dead, nothing more.”

“And my job is to expose whatever I have to.”

“Let me guess, you’re supposed to bring the gospel of truth?” There’s venom in her tone. Her annoyance seems to rise.

A smirk crawls to Freddie’s lips. “Yes,” she replies matter-of-factly. “And I get a lot of hate for it. A lot of times people don’t  _ like  _ the truth.  _ Jack Crawford  _ doesn’t even like the truth. Definitely not the truth about Will Graham.”

There goes Clarice’s mind with the curiosity again. To reprise the effort of forgetting about it, she reminds herself that all journalists really are is a casket of lies to appeal to the pleasure of the media. She shakes her head and gets in her car. “I have no business with you, Miss Lounds. Have a nice day.” She shuts the door.

With something barely of a scoff, Freddie is quick to walk over, but not before pulling something out of her handbag. She raises a hand and knocks on the window as Clarice starts up her car. “Miss Starling,” she stresses. Exasperatedly, the window is rolled down. “I know you want to hear what I have to say. Maybe you don’t think so now, but sooner or later, you’re going to want to hear me talk. I know a lot of things that your little case reports won’t ever mention about Graham.” She reaches through the window, and between her fingers is a little card. “Call me when you get curious, Clarice.”

Lips pressed into an unsure line, the brunette reaches a hesitant hand up and takes the card. She doesn’t have to look at it to know it’s some form of a business card. “I’ll call you if I find it to be important, ma’am.” She starts to roll up the window, but Freddie interferes.

“ _ Wait, _ ” she halts. Freddie leans closer towards the window, in which had been rolled back down. In her dollish blue eyes, there was almost worry. “Be  _ careful  _ with Will Graham.”

Clarice looks confused, as she studies Lounds’s eyes. She starts to wonder if she really should be doing this… With a tight lipped smile and a forced, slow nod, she gives her acknowledgment. “I know how to take care of myself.”

Freddie closes her eyes, and gives a smile of her own. She steps back, away from the window, and pulls one of her curly locks from her face. “Thank you for your consideration. I hope to hear from you soon.”

Starling gives one final nod. “Have a nice day, ma’am.” Finally, her window rolls up and stays that way, and she pulls out of her parking spot and drives away. Freddie stays where she is, and pulls out her camera just as the car is driving off. She snaps a few photos, smiling with absolute satisfaction, and so proceeds to watch the little gray jetta leave the area. 

With her camera still held firmly in one hand, she pulls out her phone with the other, and calls Jack. “Yes, Jack, it’s me. Forget our little meeting,” she says when the line picks up. Jack asks her why she has such a sudden change of plans. “I’ve found a new source.” She hangs up the phone when she’s asked who, purposefully neglecting to answer.

Pocketting the device with that little smug look on her face not yet leaving, she makes way to her own car. She sits in the driver’s seat, and looks through the photos she’s taken. They’re all different frames of the car with Clarice in it. One of the photos has almost a perfect shot of the petite brunette’s face. Definitely one Freddie’s going to be using for a possible  _ Tattle Crime  _ article.

However, the look on her face distorts a little when she catches sight of a bit of a dark blur in one of the pictures. She sets the zoom in on it; it’s a shadowy figure, looming in the distance ominously. Freddie gets an uneasy feeling from it, and decides to check the other photos in case they might have a clearer shot of exactly what or who it is. Nothing.

With self concern, she takes a wary look at her surroundings. She sees nothing but the other cars and the building that the vehicles are stationed around. She takes one more look at the photo, and shakes her head. She tries to tell herself it’s nothing, but there’s that pry for her to double check…

No. She has things to do, things to look forward to. She doesn’t need to dive into something that might cost Freddie her life. She’s had too many instances where that’s happened.

So, she starts her car, and she, too, drives away.

 

~//~

 

As Will approaches the front entrance of FBI HQ, a whole flood of unpleasant memories comes at him, like the crashing faceful of stinging saltwater in the middle of a tsunami. The cases - all those gruelling mind-jabbing cases, the mental hell that came with acquainting Hannibal,  _ Abigail _ , the Vergers, the framing, Europe… Although all of that came back to him for the first legitimate time in a short while, his face was plain. He was little bothered; it’s his past, and he’s coming to  _ accept  _ his past. Although he may not entirely like it, it’s brought him to who he is now.

That simple thought, though, makes him ponder,  _ Who am I...? _

He shakes his head. Such a typical, stupid question.  _ I am Will Graham. _ He sets the crutches before him, and pushes his legs forward, following that pattern at a steady pace until he makes it to the door.  _ Former criminal profiler, worked alongside the FBI after some time away from the field.  _ He gets the door, pushing them open although with a little struggle.  _ Loving husband and father…  _ His mind lingers on that bit.  _ Loving husband. And father.  _ Although he little wishes for such a thing, his mind drifts to an image of Abigail. Suddenly, he’s reminded in full of one among several reasons he had strove to kill Hannibal.

“Sir?”

The brunet turns his head a little stiffly. He hadn’t realised he was just standing in the middle of the doorway, probably looking stupid while doing so, considerably lost in thought. He sets eyes on an auburn haired, blue eyed woman. If it weren’t for the maturity in her demeanour, Graham would’ve mistook her for a girl perhaps in her late teens, maybe at the most her early twenties. It was mainly just her small frame that youthful look.

“ _ Sir _ ,” she repeats, when he just seems to stare at her. She seems to hold a general sense of friendly concern, but she also seems cautious. Perhaps as if Will might be someone who shouldn’t be here, but is for some delusional cause.

“I- I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and clears his throat. “Got lost in thought.” 

She sniggers some, but not exactly mockingly. “Yeah, I get that.” Her voice holds a thick sort of accent you’d hear out of someone that might come smack-dab right out of Texas. “The ol’ brain, sometimes it does little to no good at all, huh?”

Graham huffs a half-assed chuckle in a sort of agreement. “Yeah, I guess so,” he mutters. 

The woman nods. “Right, well, let me help you with that,” she said quickly, before she’s moving ahead of him to hold the door. Will stutters a protest, but she waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t be stubborn, let me be nice.”

He raises his brows, and nonetheless complies. As he makes it through the doors, he mutters a ‘thank you’ to the woman. He caught a glance of a puzzled expression on her face, and he starts to wonder if he’d done something wrong.

“You’re Will Graham, aren’t you?”

Will expects that the only reason she knows him is all the negative connections to all the killings that he had been involved with. He prepares an explanation, but she interjects before he gets to say anything.

She seems pleased. “I’m supposed to start working with you,” she declares, almost boastfully, as if she’s proud of that simple fact. Will doesn’t find any reason for anyone to  _ want  _ to work with him, though, so that comes to his understanding in the form of confusion.

A quick moment brought him to realisation, however. He had moved from the door, and so had the woman. He was walking away, to get to Crawford’s office, and she was following. “You must be Clarice Starling,” he says, seeming uninterested.

A frown comes as her response to his flat tone. She hesitates to say anything, seeming to remember parts of the previous but brief conversation she had with Freddie Lounds.

_ ‘You’re about to become associated with a psychopath…’ _

She shakes her head, as if to shoo away that thought; she doesn’t want to base her judgements of character off of what some smug journalist had told her. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m supposed to be--”

“Proving me wrong.” Will sounds bored when he pipes in to finish what he thinks she’s going to say, or at least when he says what she’s really going to be doing.

“ _ Helping you  _ find Dr Lecter,” she’s quick to correct. Although Jack had clarified to her that she was in fact supposed to be proving him wrong, she had to get Will to be more comfortable with working with her. Letting him believe that she genuinely wanted to help him would be a method of doing so, though there was a part of her that really did wish to help. “But it’s under Crawford’s orders; I’m sure you should know that whatever he says goes.”

A scoff comes from the male. As he walks, he sees some vaguely familiar faces; they give him wary looks, but he does his utmost to ignore them. A thought crosses his mind, however, and he stops, turns to face Clarice. In his eyes is something harsh; he’s changed his mind about this ordeal. “Jack’s orders or not, I don’t work for him anymore,” he says. “I don’t need your help, Miss Starling. I can find Hannibal Lecter on my own.”

“You know Jack won’t let you do that,” she warns.

A smirk crosses his face; he moves just a little closer to the brunette. “I don’t need his permission for everything I do, he isn’t my father. He isn’t my boss. And you-” He pauses, and looks Clarice over, shaking his head. “You’re young. You’re...innocent.” Will’s face contorts to show some form of twisted sympathy. “Don’t get yourself tangled into Hannibal’s web. Stay clear of my path, for your sake.”

He moves past her, to return the way he’d come. Coming here was a mistake; he didn’t even know why he bothered showing up. 

Clarice, though, wasn’t finished. It was as if Will’s warning was only drawing her to want to further be involved with whatever this twisted situation is.

“I’m not untouched to the familiarity of the kind of path you’ve been lead down.” As she says this, Will stops. “I can’t say I relate entirely to everything you’ve been through, but I want to  _ help _ , Mister Graham.”

He only shakes his head. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words come out. Only another light, breathy laugh. And so, he continues forward, and Clarice is following after him again.  _ She’s  _ almost starting to feel like some desperate reporter, now. “Graham- just- answer me this, if you’ve just given me that little  _ speech  _ about how much you don’t need my help or anything, then why did you come here in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” he answers effortlessly.

A huff comes from the brunette, starting to find this a little more difficult than she wishes it to be. “I don’t mean to be so intrusive, but I think it’s because you  _ know  _ you need help.” Her voice is raised a little, words sounding urged. She’s doing her best to get her point across, but quite obviously, Will is being rather difficult. “Maybe because you don’t want to dive too far into the rabbit hole.”

Will shakes his head as if that had been the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard from anyone in his life. “ _Don’t_ play therapist with me, _Starling_ ,” he snaps. As he says this, one of his crutches get caught on the corner of a wall when making a turn to the door. He mutters a curse under his breath, regardless of the fact that he’s able to catch himself before falling, and heaves out an impatient sigh. “I’ve had enough of therapists and psychiatrists to last three lifetimes.”

Clarice doesn’t say anything for a moment. She realises that she probably shouldn’t have said anything, but she changes her opinion on that when noticing a distant look of agreement on Will’s face; a sort of shameful admittance you see when two parts of someone had been stuck on extensive ambivalence.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though her words sounded more like an ‘I told you so’ rather than an apology. “But, please; let me help you.”

Finally, Will is at the door, but he struggles again to get it open. Clarice reprises the favour of holding it open, but this time there’s no stated thanks when the male walks through. His eyes are lowered; he feels a defeat coming on. “Why do you want to help me so bad, Miss Starling…?” he inquires hesitatingly.

She sighs. Graham stops, so that he can hear her answer. He half expects her to have nothing in reply, but he also partially hopes she expresses some sort of agreement to his proposition of the infamous cannibal running free out there, somewhere, alive and well. “I’ve looked over some background during my lunch break, along with insights to the cliff incident. You know, the cliff that you both fell off of and Lecter supposedly died from?”

Will simply nods.

“Well, some things don’t add up,” she finally says, and those words are almost like gospel to the brunet’s ears. How  _ relieving  _ it is to hear someone other than his nagging conscious say something like that. “And I want to help clear the air on this.”

And so, with a dragged on sigh, he finally leads to his admittance of defeat. Again, he nods his head. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, fine. I’ll… I’ll work with you, Miss Starling. Just… be aware of what you’re getting yourself into.”

Clarice gives a warm smile, expressing a sort of victory, but she’s just glad she got him to agree to comply with her. “Thank you, Mister Graham,” she says, even though his final bit of words bring her mind to remind her of Freddie’s similar  _ ‘Be  _ careful  _ with Will Graham.’ _ She ignores that, too. “And, please; just call me Clarice.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledges. “Okay.”

“If you want to leave, I can call you at some point about meeting up and discussing--”

“No,” Will interjects. “Molly- my wife, she expects me home late. I need to see someone, I’ll… get back to you later. I’m sure Jack can give you my cell number.”

The brunette nods her head to express her agreement on that simple plan. “I’ll hear from you later, then. You be careful on that leg.”

“Yeah...” Will lingers where he is, as if he’s about to say something, but seems to change his mind on it. He says nothing further, and makes way to return to his car. “Tell Jack I’ll have to see him some other time,” he calls back to the woman.

“I will,” she answers. She wonders, for a moment, who Will is about to go and visit. Deciding that it’s likely personal and none of her business, though, she dis-considers worrying much about it any further.


	6. Amicus

The night crawls in slowly, the cold harshly biting those daring enough to stick themselves outside. It had been a good several hours, and Will wasn’t moving much from where he had parked his car, alone and seemingly non existent to the thoughtless passerby. Though, that would suggest that there was anyone passing by, when there is in fact not. Regardless of so, although some would be shivering like a bag of clattering bones in this weather, he was unbothered. He sits quietly in the dark, veiled that his vehicle serves in producing.

His eyes are focused forward, and they had been directed that way for a while now. He’d been watching a fairly sized house, expensive but fit clearly only for one. If necessary, it could probably house two. He watches all that happens within the interior the best he can from where he is spectating. He watches the ons and offs of lights, the silhouette of the inhabitant moving about in a speed that could be considered frantic. He recognises the franticality, only because he had felt it all before; it was familiar to him. The necessity to escape, to leave, to run. And, he’s pretty sure who from, too.

All lights in the house are off now. Every half hour, it seems, the inhabitant of that home had checked the outside world through one of the windows in a manner that screamed paranoia. Will would tense up every time she did so, in his own cautious worry that she may see him. She had checked the window again just now, and he had a feeling that it would be the last time she would check any other window tonight, save for perhaps her car window.

Finally, the male decides it’s about time to leave his own car, and approach the home. He expects a few different possible reactions, but assuredly the fact that he’s temporarily crippled would have him seem much less of a threat. At least, he hopes so. He grabs his crutches from where they fit on the passenger side of the vehicle, opens the door, and steps out. 

He follows the same, boring rhythm of crutches, foot, crutches, foot to make for the front entrance. His expression shows a developed calm, his demeanour proving a sort of confidence but unsureness at the same time. He is calm, because he himself feels he has little to worry about. Unsure, because there is still those little bits of possibility that this will go disaccording to how he aspires.

As he crosses the lawn and almost reaches the door, it opens to reveal the hurrying Bedelia du Maurier, pulling behind her a suitcase and carrying a couple of small bags. She doesn’t see Will yet, but he’s still now. She closes the door, lifts her head, and freezes completely when setting eyes on the brunet. She holds a look of fear, then after a moment, simple defeat. The fear must’ve deteriorated when noticing that he probably wouldn’t be able to do much to her even if he truly wished to.

Bedelia sighs in a sort of frustration, leaning back against the door as her eyes are fixed on William, as if regardless watching for any movements he may take to harm her.

“Going somewhere?,” he asks , just barely tauntingly when identifying the bags confirmed that she was in fact leaving. Where to, is the question? 

“Hello, Will.” Her tone implies a form of patient, hovering exasperation. She had very clearly planned to leave unnoticed, hence why she’s doing so in the middle of the night, but Will’s arrival had proved a failure in that planning.

“It’s been two weeks, Bedelia,” he points out, knowing almost exactly of her purpose of leaving. “Why are you in such a rush just now?” He speaks with genuine inquiry. He would’ve expected her to be long gone by now.

She hesitates, “I’ve been away.” He doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he wants her to continue, to elaborate. “Vacation, you may wish to call it. I came back, hearing about the cliff incident, but--”

“You had hoped we were dead,” Will interjects, knowing clear of what she was intending to imply.

Bedelia has another moment of hesitation. She still doesn’t take her eyes from him, still cautious of his actions. “Hoped would be the key word. But unlikely, I knew it would be,” she went on. Her breathing grows mildly shaky, she’s terribly tense. Will would probably effort in telling her she doesn’t need to be afraid. But, in truth, he doesn’t exactly want to tell her that. Besides, she has every reason to be.

“Have you seen him lately?”

The answer to that question was something that Bedelia was holding onto, like a life raft in the middle of a lonely ocean. She hadn’t seen Hannibal recently, and she hopes never to see him again. But she and Will alike know that she’s next on Hannibal’s menu.

“No,” she answers simply. “And I hope to keep it that way.”

“He’ll find you, Bedelia.” It’s hard to tell if those words come off as a warning, or a threat. “It doesn’t matter where you run.”

The blonde’s face contorts into an expression that shows she’s well aware of that. She doesn’t want to believe it, though, so she intends to run for as long as she has to. For as long as she can. “He’ll find you, too, Will,” she counters. “You know how much he enjoys dinner guests. You very well happen to be his favourite.”

Not entirely positive that he exactly likes that evident fact, Will holds an unsure look in his eyes. He blinks, twists his head to the side. “I know.” He stares at a patch of frosted grass that peaks up from the dirt. His imagination replaces the dirt with a puddle of blood; it looks black. 

He blinks the image away, turns his eyes back to Bedelia. Something in his eyes startles her; a menace that could be recognised only in those who may have ill intentions on their mind. 

Tension seems to rise. “Why are you here, Will?,” she finally asks.

Said male makes a shrug of his shoulders, his lip sticking out in a careless, unsure manner. “Am I not allowed to check on an old friend? A friendly c--”

“We are not friends, Will.” Her tone comes across as harsh, seemingly too quick to harshness as she intended. Being the proper woman Bedelia seems to put herself off as, it’s both implied and evident in her recurring hesitancy. Will, in reply to her interjection, holds something akin to a frown in his dull eyes. “Colleagues, perhaps. But I would hope not to come across as your friend.”

The cripple lowers his eyes back to the ground. His stare is blank and distant, he seems disappointed. “What’s so bad about being my friend?”

Her face twists into a humoured sickness. “Need I say?” Will returns his eyes to her again, a cue for her to go on. “Anyone who is or becomes your friend. All of them, that I have come to observe; if they are not already troubled in some mental fashion, then they either end up in such a way, or they end up worse.”

“Worse, perhaps, as in--”

“Dead.”

“--dinner?”

Bedelia’s breathing shifts just that once more. The world alone, and the meaning behind it is disturbing enough. But, she’s grown well accustomed to that kind of disturbingness. It’s what is being added onto it - Will’s amused gaze, that twitch at the corner of his lips that is just a millimetre from a smirk that even he is likely unaware of - that disturbs her most of all.

“If that is so, Bedelia,” he goes on, “then you have been my friend for longer than you or I may think.”

She tries to back up. But she’s already as pressed up against the door as is; instead, she takes a cautious step to the side. “I would like to take my leave, now. If you don’t mind.”

Will blinks. The look on his face as was formerly described fades, yet does not disappear in complete. With a single nod, he moves himself to his left, gesturing her to proceed. After a moment’s wait, she starts to walk past him, dragging her bags with her to her car. He watches her.

He could add that she wouldn’t be able to get very far. He could propose that since he’s aware of her leaving, it defeats the purpose of it being a secret disappearance, or a disappearance at all. That she ought to know this. 

But he doesn’t. 

He lets her go, curious of what may come as a result of the negligence of warning.


	7. Deliberatio

“Mrs Verger,” comes the greeting voice of Jack Crawford. Margot, from where she is sitting - cross legged and proper-looking - looks over. She doesn’t smile at him, though he still gives the kind enough courtesy of smiling at her kindly and politely. “It’s nice to see you. Unannounced, but nonetheless, what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jack walks from the door he had entered from. They’re both within his office, Margot seated in a chair just across from Jack’s desk as he makes way over to it. He has an idea of what she may want to discuss with him, though he does not hold onto such an assumption. They could be having a purely common conversation, maybe even a friendly one. 

The brown-haired woman huffs a breath, her chest rising and falling accordingly. “Verger-Bloom, please,” she corrects, a sort of tired impatience lacing her tone as she says this.

“Right,” Jack catches himself. “You’ll have to forgive me, I wasn’t sure if--”

“It’s a simple hyphenation, Crawford. There’s nothing to be unsure about.”

He gives her a sort of blank look. He senses her attitude, which implies she’s not in her best mood. Really, Margot has the default expression of someone who’s constantly annoyed with the world. But, Jack knows the difference. At least, he thinks he does. Either way, her attitude comes as a surprise to him, as he’s not entirely used to that.

“Well, I don’t think hyphenations are what you came to talk about.” He leans forward in his chair, intertwines his fingers over his desk. Albeit, an appearance that shows he’s ready to listen to whatever she has to say.

Margot doesn’t speak for a moment. In the lack of communication, a quiet tension starts to rise. “I want to talk about Will. Alana has been painfully worried ever since he woke--”

“ _Will_ is just fine--”

“Please don’t interrupt me, Jack.” He raises his brows at her; if she were a student, or an otherwise worker for the bureau, he would’ve likely snapped at her for that. But, as she very simply isn’t, he bites back his behavioural tendencies. “Either way, you know that isn’t true.”

He leans back, releasing a sigh. His stubbornness has him opposing to even wanting to hear this, but he’s going to have to hear it from someone eventually, he’s sure. Why not hear it now and get it over with? “Alright, fine. Please, go on.”

Pleasure shows in Margot’s eyes; she’s glad that she has Jack’s attention in this. She knows how much of a win getting at the very least this far with him is. She’d been well informed in full of the honest stubbornness he holds. “We have grown...particularly worried that he may follow in Hannibal’s shadow.”

Jack hesitates. “Well, good, he should be finding Hannibal, sticking in his shadow would help him.”

“You’re not listening,” she says with clear exasperation. “First of all, isn’t Hannibal supposed to be dead?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“And I take that Will _finding_ Hannibal has become an obsessive necessity for him, hasn’t it?” 

Jack says nothing. His eyes trail away, because he does know the only purely truthful answer to that question is one of confirmation, of agreement. 

“You shouldn’t be letting him do this. As according to what I’ve heard from Alana, you know what happened the last time you pushed him--”

“I am _not_ pushing him,” he says quickly in his defense. “Will is entirely capable of making decisions of his own. He wants to _prove to us_ that we’re wrong, and I say let him proceed. He’ll figure it out on his own. If you don’t like that, well then that’s just too bad.” She almost says something to counter, but Jack holds up a finger to silence her. “Not only that, if he somehow _miraculously_ finds Hannibal alive somewhere, maybe we can finally contain him for _good_.”

Margot shakes her head slowly. She allows another moment of silence, as she gathers her next words. Perhaps he’s starting to prove to be _too_ stubborn. “I don’t think this is going to play out as smoothly as you hope it to be.” She leans over, grabbing her little handbag. “All I’m saying is you should think this over. Then _rethink_ it. Either you’re going to find Hannibal’s body at his feet, or you may never see him on your side of morality again.”

She stands, looking to Jack with something akin to a frown. “I hope you take this conversation to heart. I don’t like seeing my wife so worried.” Not bothering any proper goodbye, she turns and makes way for the door, the click of her heels giving the mere tensity of a clock in the fallen silence.  

“Have a nice day, Mrs Verger-Bloom,” he attempts calling out to her, yet he doubts she’s listening. Thus, he results to a frown at that. He knows she’s right, that he _has_ to consider these things. Will has in fact grown to be rather suspicious of late, in a few ways. But, he has a family, he’s better right?

He reminds himself of the Dolarhyde incident. Suddenly, he’s back to thinking that he has every right to be suspicious. He taps his fingers on his desk, trying to think on how he should act on this situation. Though, just then, Clarice had come to enter the room.

“Sir, there’s--”

“Have a seat, Clarice,” he tells her with a sigh. His eyes are directed elsewhere, it’s clear that he’s troubled.

Being the attentive girl she is, Clarice notices this. As she eases into the seat Margot had formerly been in, she eyes Crawford with a crease in her brow. “Is everything alright, sir?,” she asks politely, yet with just enough concern dashed into her words to prove she intended common friendliness.

He shakes his head, almost dismissively. “I don’t think we should keep this going,” he says to her. Before going on, he holds a moment of hesitation. “Letting Will chase a ghost is a bad idea.”

Clarice says nothing, for a good minute or so. She felt an honest disappointment in hearing Jack’s consideration of dropping this whole thing. She had just gotten into this, really in-depth in appropriate background on both Graham and Lecter. As much as she could find, anyway. Which, honestly, wasn’t really much. Not only that, she knows the importance of considering every possibility out there. What if Hannibal the Cannibal is still alive and well, and having yet to serve his next dish?

She purses her lips. In a careful manner, as if it were to cause any kind of negative reaction from Jack, she lifts the small bundle of folders she had came in with for him to see. “I found something on that recent missing person case,” she says.

“Starling, I really don’t think that pertains to this situation. It’s a small case, his wife says he has a tendency for wandering off.”

“That’s not all. She just came to us this morning, confessed that her husband is linked to the murders of those little girls. You remember them, don’t you?”

“That year old case?” The wrinkles in his face crease just that bit more. He’s curious about where she’s going to take this, if not glad that they finally have a face on who (possibly) performed those murders. As Jack has already clarified, it’s an aged case, but not necessarily too old. It took it’s spark when a nine-year-old girl was found in a toy warehouse, disfigured and mutilated. He would’ve liked to have Will on that one… “That’s… _good,_ but how does this have anything to do with Graham and Lecter? I’m assuming that’s where you’re taking this, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the brunette answers firmly. She holds a sort of prematurely professional demeanour, as if she’s worked with the bureau for years when in fact she’s still rather new. It should be important not to mistake such a demeanour for pride; she’s not exactly one to stride in a river of pride. “It’s just an idea, really, and I could be going nowhere with this, but this turned up in their home.”

Clarice picks out a bag - an evidence bag - that holds a small card with some writing on it. She hands it over to Crawford carefully, as if it’s a fragile piece of glass. He takes it, skims his eyes over the face of the paper.

It’s a recipe card, the paper a faded manilla colour. The text is in a clean, neat cursive handwriting written in black ink.. Once Jack’s mind subconsciously analyses the handwriting, he gets a gut-wrenching sense of familiarity from it. He stares blankly at it for a bit.

“To my understanding, Lecter had a taste for elegantly cooked meals, kept a collection of recipes, didn’t he?"

Jack shakes his head at her inquiry. Yes, she’s very much correct, but there’s no way this is one of Hannibal’s recipe cards. His home, his kitchen has been long cleared out, everything has been disposed of. The only way for this to _possibly_ have any association to Lecter is if he himself made a new set.

He huffs in an impatient way. He quickly gives the bag back to Starling, and she seems a little taken aback by his sudden reaction. “It is very, _very_ unlikely that this case has _anything_ to do with Lecter. That card could belong to the couple, do they keep recipes?”

Clarice presses her lips to a thin line as she shakes her head. “No, sir. The wife says neither of them have any kind of culinary talent or interests. We found no other cards like this. Needless to say, she claims to never have seen it before.”

Jack seems to lean back further into his chair, as if wishing for the leather to swallow him whole, engulf him into non existence. He rubs his fingers over his jawline in a sort of thoughtful gesture. He ponders it for a minute. Maybe it was given to them? Secret collection of the husband’s? It could even be a completely _different_ captor who _isn’t_ Lecter, leaving behind some sort of clue.

“Has it been checked for fingerprints? Hair fibres?”

“It’s gone through every inspectionary tool necessary. Nothing.” Clarice therefore proceeds to watch the male seem to drown in his thoughts, as she gives that answer. She sighs quietly, holding the folders in her lap. “Jack, I know you don’t like what I’m proposing, but we have to consider every possibility. We have to be _careful._ This is Hannibal Lecter we’re talking about.”

He glances to her, a glint of agreement in his dark eyes. He sighs, letting his hand fall. “You ought to know it’s not good enough to directly link to Lecter,” he says. “But… I’ll take note of it. We’ll keep an eye out.”

Clarice gives a small smile as she nods to express her own agreement on that. “I think Mister Graham ought to be informed, don’t you think?,” she suggests coolly. She tucks the bag back in the folder it was kept in.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” He pauses. Margot’s _recommendation_ on rethinking this whole thing echoes throughout his thoughts...He shakes them away. “You stay in here while I’m on the phone with him, maybe I can try talking with him over the phone if he refuses to come over.” He reaches for his phone, and pulls up Will’s number. “You said he’s visiting someone, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t say,” she clarifies with a shrug. 

Jack sighs once more, shaking his head. There’s a dab of suspicion he feels about that, but he suppresses such a feeling. He still holds enough faith in Will that he wouldn’t do anything suspicious. Though, that faith is constantly tested and questioned, it seems. He has to give Will this chance, though.

He sets the phone flat on his desk, hits the dial button, and sets the call on speaker.


	8. Denarro

Chirping grates noisily through the air. Not birds, no. Cricket chirping. It’s a common sound that turns rattling, on the distasteful sense. It’s endless, it’s consistent… It’s one of those sounds that could drive someone mad when listening too carefully. Like staring into a grayscale spiral for hours at a time.

Will’s mind wanders, delving into the depths of what memories he has of the cliff. It reels through his mind like the playing of a film, one he hadn’t particularly planned on watching but he allowed to continue playing anyways.

Behind closed eyes, he can see the rush of passing air, he can feel the whip of the wind cutting past his body, and the one he’s clinging to. Then comes the impact of water; he can feel the cold temperatures engulf his body, swallowing him whole as the waters prick at his wounds like needles. The hairs on his arms stand up, and he gives a small shiver at the retrospection of senses.

From there, there seems to be quite a gap in memory, perhaps from simple unconsciousness. He doesn’t remember swimming, nor does he remember sinking. His memory seems to take some sort of jump, and now he has visual on waves brushing against sand. He remembers coughing up the water, it’s salty taste burning the back of his throat. He remembers looking up, seeing a pained, yet gentle face looking down at him. He remembers a smile.

As Will opens his eyes, he attempts at breaking the discovered silence. To do so, he opens his mouth, breathes out an excessively loud and dramatic sigh. It has little effect, though; as soon as the sound is made, the ripple it causes is miniscule, the sound dying out fairly quickly. Instead of focusing on the short-lived disappointment, he simply watches his breath drift off in a white cloud.

Looking down at his leg, he makes a small grumble. The cast that hugs his broken, yet healing leg feels terribly restricting. He can’t do so much, since he has to make use of _support_ to get around. He has to keep a pair of crutches to aid his walk to make sure he doesn’t fall over. It’s pathetic, almost, the fragility of the human body.

Since Bedelia’s leave, Will had located himself to a wood area. He’s alone, as both intended and preferred, so that he can clear his head some. He needs to regather a sort of effective headspace, so that he has more fluent thinking on this head-aching incident. He gets the feeling that this is all going to play out like Florence. Hunting down Hannibal, that whole bit. Maybe he’ll even start finding a trail of bodies. He chuckles at the thought. Wishful thinking, really.

The male takes in a deep breath. His best - and probably _only_ possible chance at finding Hannibal - would be to follow Bedelia around. That is, if Hannibal doesn’t go to Will first, instead. But, Will knows him. He would most likely have a bit of fun before letting himself turn up as officially found. 

He also knows just how _clever_ Hannibal is. He could very well not do anything at all, just to make sure he _isn’t_ found for a very long time. That, or change up a few things, change up the way he does things.

Finally, yet audaciously, the unarranged symphony of cricket chirps - as well as Graham’s thought process - is interrupted. His phone rings with the caller ID of an unknown number. As he pulls the device from his pocket, and sees this, suspicion and hope flutters at the back of his throat at the same time. He breathes in deeply, answers the call and holds the phone to his ear. He doesn’t speak.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your visit with, well, whomever you’re visiting.”

William sighs. He feels almost disappointed, recognising the voice on the other line to be none other than Jack’s.

“Really, I’d think that your visitation would be over with by now, but--”

“ _Good evening,_ Jack.” Will’s interrupting tone holds a calm exasperation. “I’m sorry I didn’t--”

“Starling clarified already, don’t apologise. Are you busy?”

The brunet shakes his head, then gives a verbal, “No,” when realising that Jack wouldn’t see the gesture. “I’m assuming you want me over there now?”

“Yeah, that would be nice, actually. I have Starling with me now, we’ve been discussing something rather _important_ for a few minutes. Think you can make it over?”

Just as that’s being said, an echo of a scream flows to Will’s ears. It’s not a human scream; rather, it sounds like the cry of a terribly wounded animal. As pure instinct, he wants to see what it is. What’s been hurt, and if there’s anything he can do to help.

“Actually, no,” he says into the phone. “Not now, maybe not tonight. I’ll let you know.”

“Mister Graham, I--”

The phone goes dead, as the cripple ends the call. It had been Clarice’s voice that had been speaking just before he did so. Frankly, Will wasn’t yet entirely in the mood to speak with them. He’s already said plenty to the woman earlier that day. Yes, he told her he’d speak to her later, but perhaps that ‘later’ will have to be tomorrow… Thus saying, he might be getting home a little later than what he had told Molly. It’s only a matter of time before she calls him, too.

He twists his body, only slightly, to look past the trees and have a look at the placement of his car. As should be, it’s docile. In the darkness, it looks like something left behind from a careless wanderer. Will starts to think that’s all he is now. Like a traveler, finding that missing jewel that he finds to prize over the others.

He sighs, turning back around. Of course, he can’t proceed to aid whatever animal was out there without any defense. He has a pocket knife. Good enough, yes? He doesn’t think this would go to as much severe extents that he would need a gun.

To make sure it’s still _in_ his pocket, he takes his hand and pats over said pocket. With the appropriate confirmation that it is in fact there, he finally goes to follow where he’d heard the former cry. It didn’t sound too far away, so he doesn’t suppose the trip ought to be very long.

And so, as said, it only took several minutes of navigation - and almost tripping over a root once or twice - until he could see a dark mass lying in a patch of grass. He can see movement, perhaps breathing, so whatever it is seems to still be alive. Graham proceeds with caution, keeping in mind of the obvious generic behaviour of wounded animals.

He can’t yet tell how it had been hurt, from where he’s standing. But, he can tell that it’s a stag. Dull brown fur, twisted antlers, the whole package. As it lays there, it’s huffing breaths and managing simultaneous cries of pain. It doesn’t seem to react much to William’s presence, aside from a simple flinch. 

He approaches it, kneels beside it. His face doesn’t show sympathy, he doesn’t show worry. He isn’t even sure if he _feels_ either of those things. It’s wounded, probably dying: he can see it’s wound now, which is a rather fatal slash to its neck. Blood seeps from the gash, dribbles down its fur and soaks into the soil beneath it.

“What happened to you…?” Even as he mutters that, he can see the play of the wound’s infliction coming together, habitually piecing together in his head. Somehow, someone has gotten close enough to stab it. It’s a clean cut, but he doesn’t see a weapon lying around. Who would do this…?

The stag looks to him with pleading eyes. It’s begging for help, for _mercy_ on its life. The only thing Will can think of doing is to put the poor thing out of its misery… He plucks his knife out from his pocket, folds out the blade. He moves his other hand to run over the animal’s head, so that he may attempt at comforting it into death.

Just as he’s pressed the blade’s tip to the stag’s chest, a twig breaks behind him; someone’s here. 

Will halts his movements. His very breathing slows. He does not portray alertness, although really, he should. He’s a cripple with nothing but a _knife._ Defending himself from anything ought to be quite the fight, and quite the difficulty. Regardless, he turns his head slowly, so that he can at least get a glimpse at who’s behind him, a silhouette maybe...unless, of course, it was just another animal scurrying by. But, he would hear the rustling of hurried footsteps dashing along if that were the case. In which, he did not.

Out of the corner of his eye, he does in fact catch a figure standing there. He doesn’t see enough to get an identification - partly due to the night’s darkening veil - but that’s good enough for Will, for now. “I’m assuming this is your kill?,” he asks, his question directed to the unidentified figure. His tone is flat. There is no judgement, yet there is also no praise. 

No response comes from the figure. There’s only the ongoing sound of chirping crickets and the stag’s breathing. It only frustrates Will, that he didn’t get an answer. Yet, nonetheless, he still takes it as a confirmation.

He sighs, “I strongly recommend that you not let it sit here.” He turns his head back to look at the creature. Its breathing has slowed; it’s nearing death, and the cries have grown weaker. “You’re going to let the meat spoil.” When he does reset his eyes on the stag, though, he finds that it is all but that - all _but_ a stag.

Instead of fur, he sees hair and cloth. Hands rather than hooves. _It_ is a human male. Middle aged, and very weakened from his wounds. Will chuckles quietly to himself, finding a sick joke in saying that the meat would spoil. Perhaps he’s spent too much time with Doctor Lecter...

“P-please,” he chokes out. Blood spills from the corner of his lips. “I- I didn’t mean to…”

Graham’s brows crease, his features twist to show curiosity. “Pleading for mercy… for forgiveness?,” he questions aloud. He hopes to get answers from this man’s attacker, in doing this. He leans closer, as if giving that intimidating gesture of closing the space between himself and the victim. “For what?”

“She- she was-  s-so small…”

She? _Small_?

“And... _f-fragile…_ ”

The wounded male's words has Will’s imagination wandering to a number of conclusions. Still, it’s not enough for a final answer. He turns his head again, but has yet to get a full look at the figure that still stands behind him. “What is he talking about?” Judgement seems all the more evident in his voice now. Not for the attacker, though. For the _victim._ This is sounding far more like a dramatic confessional, and Will would rather cut to the chase. _What did he do?_

“Five young girls.” Finally. An answer. “All around ages eight to ten. He butchered them all, with an assumed psychosis that he believed them to be be unjust daughters, discarding them in their imperfection.” 

Will’s curiosity on the man’s wrongdoings depletes with the answer he receives. He sighs, looking to the bleeding male before him with some form of disappointment. He finds that driving a knife into this man’s chest would no longer be considered an action of saving him his misery; rather, he would think of it as a just act - justice for the girls. The knife readjusts in his grasp. And yet, even as his urges build, a new curiosity ensues...he blinks, tilts his head. That voice, is it-?

“He will bleed out soon. He will die. I am surprised he hasn’t gone into shock yet, really. But, I trouble myself with the thought that his death is not...fitting.”

“Too simple?,” Will asks the one behind him. The more they speak, the more familiarity he finds in the voice. He can’t help but make a near _hopeful_ conclusion in his head of the face behind the voice.

“Yes,” the other answers. “Precisely. I was hoping you could help with that, if you’d like.”

Will hesitates. After that moment of hesitation, he manages something of a chuckle. It’s flat, absent of genuine emotion. Really, the lack of such is only because he’s thrown in a confusion on how to feel on this situation. He completely dismisses the fact that he didn’t even see this man as a _person_ at first. “This is _sloppy_ ,” he points out, a raise of tease in his tone. “ _Especially_ for you.”

Will could almost _feel_ the smile that comes to the other’s face. “Not my sloppiest,” he answers. “Certainly not yours, either. And you’re sitting in his blood.”

A twitch of a smile comes to the cripple’s face. He mentally curses himself, at that realisation. There’s the chance of this body being linked to himself. If found, that is. He’d definitely get an earful from Jack about it.

He takes in a breath, breathes it out slowly. He finds himself at a momentary loss for words. This whole thing is starting to feel like a dream, really. Grasping on the thought of this being a reality is altogether coming to be difficult. “I would’ve expected you to wait a little longer. Before revealing yourself to me. It’s unlike you to jump to such a thing so quickly.”

“Is it, really? Either way - I found it difficult to resist presenting myself to you.” There’s a pause, just then. It was only in that moment did Will realise there was a loose sense of tension between the two of them. That was expected. “I couldn’t wait.”

A ‘tch’ comes from Will. He at last moves to get back to his feet, grabbing the crutches to support his weight. “You _missed_ me, then?,” questions he, a very light sense of mockery in his tone. He finds it funny, if anything. But, it doesn’t exactly surprise him.

A moment of hesitation. “Always. Did _you_ miss me?”

There’s another twist in features of Will’s face. His back is still at the other, though, so it would go unseen, save for the man that’s likely seconds from death. Albeit, he doesn’t know how to answer that question. He tells himself that he didn’t miss him. It would be _wrong_ to miss someone like him, wouldn’t it? He’s not so sure, really. Who is he to judge the morality of things anymore? Instead of answering that question, he answers with a change in subject.

“Are you ready to announce yourself to the rest of the world yet, Hannibal?” He feels his chest tighten, just _saying_ his name aloud. In a way, this situation has come to be like getting a christmas gift, one that you suspect to be under the tree entirely. Yet, as you take it, unwrap it, it’s still just as much of a surprise as it would be if you hadn’t suspected it whatsoever.

He alas allows himself to turn, to look at him in full. He blinks several times, clenching his jaw as his eyes settle on Hannibal. It’s only been half a month, yet it feels like it’s been a year since the last he’s seen him. A longing, perhaps is the correct way to describe that drawn out sense of time.

In the darkness, he can’t see much. But, with the bleeding rays of moonlight seeping through the grasping twists of tree branches, Will can still make out enough of his features to know it’s him. He could probably recognise him with his very silhouette, really.

“No,” the cannibal answers. “Not yet.” Will nods his head slowly. “I trust you won’t go telling Jack on me?”

This time, the brunet shakes his head. The lightest of smiles making way to his face. “Where’s the fun in telling them? Besides. They’re well convinced you’re dead.”

A smirk crawls onto Hannibal’s lips in hearing that. It’s evident that he’s quite prideful in hearing whatever scheming he’s put together has seemed to work out. “Good,” he answers. “Let’s keep it that way, for a little while longer, shall we?”

“Of course.” William looks his former psychiatrist up and down. He finds it just a little upsetting that he didn’t seem to gain as much as an impact from the fall as he did. Self-pitying jealousy, maybe. Hannibal has no broken leg, no sign of any kind of injury that he might’ve gained from the incident. Save, of course, for the high possibility of his torso being wrapped in bandages. “You pulled me to shore, didn’t you?”

Hannibal smiles, but he doesn’t answer the question. He steps forward, nears Will just that bit more until there’s barely even a foot between them. The cripple watches the cannibal’s actions, as he lifts his hands to grab gently at the sides of his head. Inspecting, is what he seems to be doing. A thumb brushes over Will’s right cheek, over the healing gash that burrows there. For Will, it feels like a hot iron touching his skin. Yet, a hot iron he’s grown well accustomed to, one he’s somehow grown to _accept_. “You’re healing well,” Hannibal observes. The other takes this as his own attempt at changing the subject. “How’s your shoulder?”

“My shoulder is fine,” he answers flatly, lowly. He moves his own hand up, the very same one still holding that knife, and pulls Hannibal’s own from his face. Perhaps an appropriate thing to do would be to ask how the bullet wound on Hannibal’s torso had healed up, but he doesn’t feel the necessity of such an inquiry. “What are you going to do from here, Hannibal?”

The taller of the two doesn’t remove his hand from Will’s grasp. He only stares at him for a short moment, a sort of mixture between a gleam of mischief and spark of his own longing, before he would give his answer to that question. “Where’s the fun in telling you?” The mirrored response from one of his own former questions has Will’s lips play at a frown. The ex-psychiatrist’s voice lowers, “Besides, I doubt I really have to.”

The empath lowers his eyes, stares off for a moment until closing them. He’s still having difficulty in determining whether this is reality or not, whether this may be some sort of _dream._ Maybe he’s in a coma… 

His body sways, as if both leaning towards and pulling away from Hannibal at the same time. He gets a flush of a _wanting_ to hold himself against Hannibal’s chest. He didn’t realise how painfully comforting it was to be so close to him, so near _intimate_ , until back on the cliff, when the two of them shared their bloody embrace after collaboratively killing Dolarhyde.

Will’s features twist, lifting his head but keeping his eyes shut. “Is...is this a dream?” His voice comes in a whisper. There’s a hidden desperation behind his words, tucked beneath a sheet of iron threaded from his stubborn grasp of thinking he still wants to cut himself completely from Lecter.

Silence proceeds. It’s almost as if even the _crickets_ have silenced themselves now. Will feels the knife being picked from his hand. He opens his eyes, to watch what Hannibal is to do with it. “I am not sure,” he answers. “It’s quite the trouble, isn’t it? Being so dreadfully unsure of an encounter that doubting it’s reality seems to be the only solution of confirmation.”

Will shakes his head, in hearing him. “No, no, I’m not _doubting_ the reality of...this. I am simply questioning it.”

“Questioning holds some aspect of doubt, does it not?”

Will chuckles only some, twisting his head in a half-nod. “I suppose it does.” His eyes trail up to meet Hannibal’s. “I am... _perplexed_ on a great number of things between us. This, this unscheduled greeting, it...it only adds to the list.”

This time, Hannibal looks the other up and down. He has a lack of change in his features, but the indifference is replaced with him taking Will’s hand in his own - the very same one that formerly occupied that little pocket knife. “I may not be able to help your puzzlement, not yet. Not now, at least. But, I can help you form a solution to your grasp on current reality.”

Will watches silently as Hannibal turns his hand so that the palm is facing upward. He takes the pocket knife, pressing the blade to his pale skin. With one smooth swipe of his hand, a line of red splits his palm, exposing a slow flow of crimson. Will barely expresses any pain in this doing, save for a flinch of his brows. As he finishes, the cannibal turns the blade on his own hand.

“These marks will serve as placeholders. When you wake, if your hand still holds the cut, then you’ll know this wasn’t a dream.” Hannibal explains this smoothly. There has always been a cool sense of admirability in the way he can seem so utterly calm for a great many situations. “The next time we see each other, and you see this on my own hand, you may have only further confirmation.” He holds up his own bleeding hand in turn.

Will stares at his own hand for a few seconds, before he turns his eyes to Hannibal’s, then up to his eyes. “ _Next_ time?”

The older of the two smiles. “Yes,” he answers simply. “At least, I do hope for a next time.” The cripple nods slowly at that answer. He notes that, basically _engraves_ it into his mind. Just a good few seconds after, Hannibal pulls Will’s head towards himself just gently, and plants an equally gentle kiss to his forehead. Will does absolutely nothing to move away. “Go home, Will. Keep an eye on the mail, won’t you?”

They stare at each other, sharing mere moments of eye contact. Will holds curiosity in his eyes, while Hannibal holds his former glimpse of gentle mischief. That gaze is only broken, when Hannibal steps away from Will and moves to the bled out male at their feet, taking his knife with him.


End file.
